


All My Pieces (love you)

by colberry



Category: the GazettE
Genre: Action/Adventure, Doomed Relationship, Infection, Love Conquers All, M/M, Supernatural Elements, Zombies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-07
Packaged: 2017-12-28 19:44:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/995803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colberry/pseuds/colberry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which love is undead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All My Pieces (love you)

i.  
  
It happens on a Thursday.

The purple bruise of infection has a pulse, held in by trembling lines – as if Uruha had drawn it himself in a fit of drunken laughter while Aoi’s lips tilted in an amused smirk.  But it’s a little too dark, a little too deep, sinking into Aoi’s bone as it splays across his wrist.  It has teeth and when Aoi traces it with a clammy finger – eyes chained and breath shallow – Uruha feels his own chest start to stutter and scream and _take-me-instead_.

The bathroom lights flicker.  There, not there.  Here, gone. 

Aoi stares at the festering splatter of violet and maroon, spine rigid.  And Uruha can’t really breathe, can’t really hold on to the doorframe and the wood is ice against his lips.  Because no, no – _not like this_.

Aoi finds his eyes in the mirror, face pale; eyes _screaming_.

“It looks like a heart.”

ii.

The trees are skeletons.

Their gnarled hands are reaching, _reaching –_ scraping against the window as they lay intertwined in gossamer sheets – begging them:

 _“let-me-in-god-please”_. 

Uruha turns away from their hoarse cries, tangling his legs with Aoi’s.  The other’s cold ankles bite into his skin, jolting him awake in this suffocating darkness where the walls feel so small and Aoi has his hand – _that hand and its purple-blue-black stain they pretend isn’t spreading, isn’t shattering them both apart_ – hanging off the side of the bed.  Away.  Gone. 

Uruha swallows.  He wants to whisper:  
 _I still lo –_  
 _I’ll always –_  
 _Forev –_  
but his lips are still raw and bleeding from collapsing against the doorframe, throat ripped apart from screaming at every god he knew until warm palms suddenly cradled his face and pulled him close against a wet cheek and a gasping voice whispering all the words Uruha couldn’t remember how to say.  And Uruha had held him tight, sinking his hands deep into the mess of raven hair, crushing them together on the bathroom’s tiled floor. 

_Because maybe if he held on tight enough –_

_Maybe if he bruised their mouths and carved his Hail Mary’s into his throat  
and maybe if he tried to fit their broken, crooked pieces together, then maybe – _

And now the crimson is stark as it drips from his lips into the white sheets, into Aoi’s pale skin.  Uruha can barely hear him.  His breaths are shallow, fighting to escape the shorter man’s lungs, already _beginning-ending_. 

Uruha presses closer.  The soft tickle of Aoi’s hair ghosts across his forehead as he lays an ear against Aoi’s chest – so he can trace his racing ( _pleading_ ) pulse, count the beats, the breaths and –

_yes, he’s still here._

Aoi, feeling Uruha’s palms start to quiver against his heart, blinks the dirtied stardust from his eyes – dry and unseeing – and buries his nose into Uruha’s dark-rooted hair.  His wrist pulses as it hangs lifelessly and the itch of _something-something-not-right_ is already sifting through flesh.   
  
He whispers into the dark, “I guess this means I’ll be stealing your heart.”

The dry, bitter humor is lost to the chill in their bones.  The grotesque bruise pulses between them – reaching, _reaching_.  Uruha lifts his head from the steady rise and fall of the elder's chest, fingertips touching Aoi’s trembling lips.  He tries to smile, but his face is breaking apart, “But you already have it.”

A wet sigh shudders from inside Aoi’s ribs and Uruha catches his lips before the silence shatters.

iii.

A voice drenched in static bites through the apartment.

_“It can take up to two weeks for the virus to reach the heart – depending on where the infection originates.”_

Uruha stirs his coffee, blank eyes drawn to the light between the plywood nailed to the windows.

It must be sunny out today.

Or maybe whitewashed with snow.

Something bright.

Uruha turns to the slight rustle from the threshold, watching Aoi amble into the kitchen, hair tangled into a Reaper’s halo and neck puckered with raw, unsaid promises.  His eyes flicker to the bruises beneath the hollows of his gaze, the way he moves like a whisper -- barely there, almost untouchable.  And Uruha can already feel him slipping, even as Aoi drifts towards him with soft and careful steps.  Suicidal stars are hanging from the ceiling, casting a morbid glow to the elder's sallow cheeks and murmuring their last wishes into Uruha's bowed maw.  _Every last scrap of eleven-elevens and each cinder of silent comets._  
  
Aoi pauses in front of Uruha's slumped figure -- shoulder blades sharp and fingernails still circling the fate-lines of the tabletop's knotholes.

Still here.

_“And once it reaches the heart – ”_

Uruha could leave right now.  He could push the chair back with a deafening scrape and grab the keys with shaking shoulders and _drive_ and not look back and save himself and _fuck_ , _Aoi would let him._

But everything is still.  Breathless.

Until  a curtain of midnight falls across his cheek as Aoi leans down, callused hands finding Uruha’s, and lets their foreheads softly kiss – their eyes closing to the radio’s static lullabies.

 _“ – it will be too late.”_    

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ: January 14th, 2012


End file.
